"limply" poems
Listen,
I've got guilt choking all of my good juju.
I’m sorry I told you we’d hang out
just so I could come over
to watch Breaking Bad.
You know I need that
weekly crystalbluepersuasion.
I’m sorry I didn't sit on the porch steps
with you afterward
while you had your evening cigarette.
(I could have done that at least.)
I imagined you
sitting there
watching me
drive down the street &
out of your sight—
a lit cigarette hung limply from your lips.
I felt your disappointment &
I cursed my mother for teaching me
to have such a sharp sense of empathy.
I know I’ll never be badass enough
not to care.
I realize I was born to give
one too many *****
I've learned to accept it
as my incessant character flaw.
(It could be worse.)
Although,
I have to be honest,
I get my kicks
entertaining the notion
that for one evening
I was
the one that got away.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
what i cant understand
is how people can write poetry about the flowers
or the sunshine
it just seems so irrelevant
when there are so many more beautiful things to write about
like your dainty, thin, long fingers
and the way your lips emit a tiny bit of air when you pronounce ‘th’ words
your towering, awkward, bony body
loosely, limply entwined in mine
that make up your gentle, comforting hugs
how melodic your voice is, almost lulling me to sleep
your contagious, animated smile
how you write as if embroidering the pages
gracefully, an art
and the words float mid-lines
reflecting how your thoughts float among the clouds
doolally detonations of enigmatic pure excitement
over the most extraneous of matters
your eyes, the captivating bluish-steel of a mid-winter night sky
their flare, and the way they light up when you maunder lovingly of such passions
alas perhaps, poetry about plants or the weather are just as beautiful
but i
would not know
for even the planet, and nature
and sheer beauty of life
seems pale
in prejudiced comparison to your radiance
and how bright you make
my insides feel
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
Your hand rests limply
Across my waist
A cacophony of thoughts
Our hearts beat at different rates
We search for the light
Like dusty moths
Floating broken
And drifting off
On top of the sheets
Listening to the world outside
I traced the features of your face
With my rough fingertips
We gravitate towards happiness
And do what's in our power
To find the light that never goes out
The light inside each other
It is late and I've been dreaming
So the string of thoughts is tangled
But I think from now on I'll keep
A lighter beside my candle.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
I'd last about an hour as a clerk inside a store
invariably I'd shoot my mouth off
about someone's daughter dressing like a *****
or making comments about the dreadful things consumed
which would include a good 99% of the people in the room
I'd eventually end up getting my lights punched out
after ********* someone as a fat *** undiscerning lout
or cracking some aside regarding what comprises that crud
and making faces of revulsion "you'd be better off eating mud"
ewwwww, you really eat that stuff?
this store should be sued for selling such bluff
children with diabetes, a third of adults obese
the courtesy clerk dies a little for lack of surcease
line after line of vapid consumers
mindless knee-jerk impetuosity belay the rumors
what's an adulterant, what's a filler?
propylene glycol alginate, yum yum
sorbitan mono sterate, shut up and eat it, its fun!
I can't even pronounce it, much less do I care
need I be a scientist to enjoyably savor fare
Go ahead and poison yourself
the quirky clerk exclaimed
its ever so clear you're stupid and lame
stay mired in your pig-headed muck of ignorance
you're exactly what they want
another brain dead consumer
a regular culinary savant
stuff your face with no remorse nor heed
no worries, the clerk of little courtesy knows your need
he'll limply wheel out your cart of miserable choices for you
and wise-crack some snarky rejoinder
then promptly get beaten, black and blue
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
It was so vivid I could
feel my chest compressing
as I ran, crippled with sobs.
The betrayal was a knife
It was a furnace and my
feet hurt as I flew across the
city. When I punched out my
bedroom window I could feel
the glass separating my knuckles
and I contemplated the destiny
of the larger shards. I awoke as one
resuscitated from drowning
resuscitated from death
gasping, shaking, reeling
d e m a t e r i a l i z e d
and began to cry as I
performed yogic breathing
exercises and went limply through
the worn out motions to
assuage heart attack symptoms.
They know they know
even follow me
follow me when I'm asleep.
My God.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 8:09 AM UTC
The dream haunts me
often, far too often, building
in intensity but is initially
disguised in absurdity and the
nonsense of a young man's lusts
with an old man's deficits.
This woman-like entity,
ill-defined at first but forming
voluptuously, emerges from
swelling curtains. She moves, more
levitates, toward my bed, buoyed
by what I don't know, but angelic-like
it would seem. Or perhaps
an Aphrodite reincarnate?
Oh this goddess, what pale
skin, as Parian marble, full bosomed,
jutting ******* ***** that
beckon, nearly drool, and pursed
red lips beaded with sweet
juice stolen from the wild cherry
tree beneath my window.
Far too much clarity for a simple
dream. But such a dream! And what
seething testosterone I feel!
I am become a hedonist, raging,
pulsing spermatozoa, renewed
of time and youthful energies.
Nerve into nerve we join, ecstacy
compounding ecstacy, bodies wantonly
impaling the other on this love bed
to the result that each cell of our
individualities melds. We are indistinct,
yes - as one, and any ****** impulse
between us is shared to the point of
utter exhaustion, depletion. I am
nearly drained of life, it would seem.
Then, as it always must,
the scene changes, Act II.
Inexplicably, shedding a ******
serpentine-like skin, she slings it away
and drops limply upon me - entirely
skeletal, dry cartilage, sinew, lifeless,
sexless, motionless. The horror
of a diabolical hollowness
stares through me, and I am
suspended, fully terrorized, in
this paralysis. So, this is
succumbing to the Succubus?
God, my dear God, that I should
never dream again!
--
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 10:25 AM UTC
Its sun-bleached pink parka
Limply hung over slumped, thin shoulders
Even in the summer twilight,
Crinkles, stale newspapers and plastic bags
Dissonance with the jarring
Rattle of shopping cart wheels.
Its rank malt liquor stench—
Astringent ammonia sweat
Runs in rancid rivulets down
Decaying skin on decaying face.
Pimples and pus and
Meth-notched teeth.
It offers a drink
In exchange for change.
My watch has never been more riveting.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 1:15 AM UTC
It's just a bite, what harm could it do?
It triggers a domino effect, because one bite invariably turns into two, and three, and four and all of a sudden you're eating.
But you can't do that, because being skinny will make everything better.
You look in the mirror, hoping to see ribs and spine and hip-bones. You stretch your skin farther over your bones, and watch the fat melt away. You are skinny, and you are indestructible.
Nothing fits.
You shop for new clothes
but they sag in all the wrong places.
Nothing pulls over your chest the way it used to, instead it hangs there limply.
There are inches of extra fabric behind your thighs.
Your hips used to be graceful and womanly, but now you look like a pre-pubescent child.
Being skinny just isn't fun anymore.
But you can't go back, because you remember times when you'd stand in front of dressing room mirrors and clothes would s t r e t c h over your stomach and hips and thighs and ******* Everything would be too tight in all the wrong places.
It is either skinny or fat, never an in-between. You can never be "healthy" because that's fat too.
And the food is still on your plate while all of this runs through your mind and it almost kills you, because it's JUST A BITE.
but it isn't 'just' anything. it's a big deal.
So you leave the bite behind and your stomach begs you for something, anything. And then you see the candy.
The chips.
The diet sodas.
The protein bars.
The brownies.
The ice cream.
The milkshakes.
And suddenly you are out of control, eating it all at once and you can't stop. It goes in but it HAS TO COME OUT.
So you lock yourself in the stall.
You tickle the back of your throat with your pointer finger and it comes back.
Purple,
Orange,
Blue.
Unnatural colors that come from processed foods.
Red,
yellow,
green.
And you are empty again,
crying on the bathroom floor
with no one to save you.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
beyond the lighted city
past the festive crowd
beneath the melancholic halogen
outside the shut doors and windows
upon a lane paved with garbage
amid an air stenched with *****
between two wooden wheels
head resting on holed rexine
arms limply down from heaven
feet embracing the dirt
sleeps another night
from the ashes of day
dreaming just enough
to muscle
another
morn.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
**Dear Nat,
When I grow up,
I think that my
Wonder Woman cape,
that flys behind
so gracefully,
as I wrestle villains,
intent upon
World Destruction
will morph into a
***** dish rag
that hangs limply
from my shoulder,
as I tend too,
mountains of
folding and training of
hysterical toddlers
to be stable products
in society
Is what shape,
this cape, marking me
"all-grown-up'?
Signed,
Helen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**
Dear Wonder Woman,
(Borrowing from and with apologies to
Arthur Herzog Jr. and Billie Holiday...)
This ball you tossed,
Arrived early morn,
Forcing me tocontemplate
the choice between
Shaving, and /or poetically,
dispelling your
Grand Confusion.
Fancy that, as I pondered
How to best express,
The obvious reply,
the BS&T; sang the answer
Obviatin' the need,
To discuss your heroics,
The care, the feed,
Those you care for,
Attend their needs.
*God bless the child
that's got his own,
God bless' the child
who can stand up and say
I've got my own
Ev'ry child's, got to have his own,
His very own.*
I could be more explicit,
That when I was a child,
A red dish cloth was a
Perfectly good ASAP cape,
That defeating bad guys
Hungry work that needed
Ring Dings + milk, to soothe a
Superhero's Superman
And both arrived courtesy of
Wonder Mom.
So rather than ramble,
Let this preamble
suffice:
*God bless the child
that's got his own,
Wonder Woman*
N.B. This message has been approved by the
Justice League of America, Australia Branch.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
He wandered along the Pullman car
As if he owned the train,
And wore the badge of ‘Conductor’ and
A whistle on a chain,
He carried a block of tickets that
Were printed differently,
With various towns and places from
The inland to the sea.
He’d walk from behind the driver, from
The front up to the back,
His steps in time to the rhythm of
The train, its clicketty-clack,
He wouldn’t look at the passengers
Unless their eyes were strained,
But then would pause with his ticket block
To see which ones remained.
And then, as if he divined the stress
Each passenger went through,
He’d tear off one of the tickets, as
He would, for me or you,
And suddenly they’d be on a beach
Or resting in some town,
And making love to a red-haired *****
Just as the sun went down.
The train continued its journey with
Its steady clicketty-clack,
The passenger sitting limply with
His eyes, empty and black,
While ever the train’s conductor walked
Along the swaying aisle,
Dispensing the tickets on the block
For mile on endless mile.
Then once at their destination he
Would blow a single note,
Using that tiny whistle hanging
Chained down by his throat,
And all of the passengers would wake,
Their eyes no longer black,
Marvelling at the dreams they’d had
While travelling on that track.
If ever you board that certain train
Be sure to be aware,
And look long at the conductor,
As he walks; No, even stare!
Then if he pauses in front of you
Think where you’d like to be,
And watch as he peels your ticket off,
Your ride to ecstasy.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
You tell me raise my hands and arms,
Praise the lord, for he can save me.
But; Limply they hang , wrists cocked down.
I cannot lift my arms for I am sore from the past.
You say, warmth is in sky!
but gravity pulls the warm blood to my dormant fingers. The comfort is far more familiar.
As the blood gathers in the tips that once held yours, I realize I will never move them.
You told me; God doesn't approve of our love, you told me, God said I'm not the one.
You expect me to raise my arms up to the so called God that took my circulation, my heart, and, soul?
Drop me in water, examine if my arms move.
Sinking.
Sinking..
Sinking...
Will you continue watch me drown to cover the truth you've use'd your religion, you used OUR God, as an excuse to no longer love me?
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 9:40 PM UTC
Behind a speakeasy
in a ***** moonlit alley
silhouettes climb up a tired
and worn out stairway
vacancy signboard beneath
an incandescent light bulb
marks the nondescript entrance
for the nights commerce
Outside the window ledge
a billboard hums an electric tune
between the blinds neon light
sneaks into the room
casting shadows on a naked
landscape across the mattress
spread totally disinterested
pockmark flesh limply waiting
Clumsy hands fumble
to unzip stained denims
hobbling with unsteady steps
to the edge of the bed
a drunk smelling of cheap whiskey
and ***** smiles at me with
two rows of rotted stumps
my first customer of the night
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 6:48 PM UTC
There isn't really any significance in our attempts
The sweater's string is being pulled as we continue to knit
But the string is unraveling and we are left only cold
The pasta on our plate is nothing but an appealing fake
So our bellies are empty and our shoulders are shivering
We lay there limply as we are slowly wrapped in our own string
Wrists and ankles bound by unfulfilled and color-coded dreams
An S & M horror show in the sheets with life, us, & we
Dancing like a jerky ballerina, eyes glazed over now
We used to know how to walk and talk, but we've forgotten how
So as puppets we are told that we are not cold nor hungry
And that everything is fine and everything is as it seems
So we smile, thinking our wooden houses can make us happy
We don't notice that everything is painted the same color
Or girls and boys look exactly like their fathers and mothers
And we are just waiting to be piled onto the dead heap
Of broken toys and broken dreams that sometimes plagues our deep sleep
That feeling when you get really sad sometimes, that's what that is
So cut your strings, and think some things, breathe out as human again
The puppeteer has no time to hear of a few strings snapping
He has his hands full keeping down the human spirit, you know?
And when he's sleeping, cut off his fingers and his little toes
I know you are worried because you are tiny and alone
But he can't do anything if he has nothing to control
If the blade is still ****** do not clean any of it off
Use the blood and blade to cut the strings and soak their wood awash
Wood stained red, breathe life again, their eyes light up with words unsaid
And the lonely alabaster trees are swaying in the breeze
Red streamers tied to the branches to signify what is free
If only someone really had the courage to cut the strings
*I could go for the gritty, teeth-biting, ****** anarchy.*
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
She smiles at him as he enters
A sign of affection reduced to a dim glow
The way she bares her teeth these days
Has turned more feral than feminine
Her eyes are glazed, and no longer vocal
A vacant gaze, without love or pain
Silent at last, dead screams of disapproval
Disgorge their own spirits, which soon evaporate
And as they burn in wretched silence
All is swallowed by a swirling void
Shades of crimson defile her ****** grin
As she stares limply, lifeless and broken
This cul de sac
This neighborhood
This city of sins and secrets,
No place worth mention,
And no place
for a Lover's Heart.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
A small gust of air
and then a flash of rainbow
A dragonfly
My thoughts wander
Why are they compared
To majestic
Creatures of lore
When they are no longer
Than my shortest finger?
I shake my head
It is hard to stay focused
In this hot muggy air.
My fishing rod hangs limply
Over the unnervingly
Clear pond
My eyes drift over
To a patch of water lilies
Their petals droop
in the hot muggy air
I see their roots
And recall how easy it is
to pull one up and out
Stirring up the pond floor
In a flurry of mud
I sigh and lean back,
The old dock creaking
Taking special care
To avoid splinters
From the brittle wood
My feet-
Are the only cool part of me.
A drop of sweat
Snakes down my leg
And with a soft sound
Drops down
To join the rest of the water.
I am growing impatient.
The fish and I
Have something in common
We are lazy in the heat.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
Beat.
Numb.
Limply still.
Look at what you've done.
A spirit;
broken.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 9:19 PM UTC
Your once hot-chocolate eyes are now
A cold vortex
Surrounded by ashen skin and
The moon's craters.
Your fragile heart skips another beat
Your breaths are limited
I can no longer be the anchor
of your dying soul.
I study your face, full of
sadness and beauty
Well worn wrinkles
Dimples deep enough
to catch raindrops
Eyelashes, a cradle for snowflakes.
Soft tufts of faded sun-kissed curls lie limply across your forehead.
Your arid lips part as you
draw in a shaky breath.
Like quicksand you slip through
Split seconds.
Do not fear my love,
Do not fight...
It's time to let go,
but tonight,
you will not need your wings to fly.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
Hanging from your words
Like Jon Wayne Gacy
Over the concrete slabs of Babylon.
The women and children gather in the square
To celebrate the suicide of a totalitarian.
We've seen it before, but this time
In your arms
It will never repeat.
Endtimes. Nagasaki.
Why can't we lie here until paralyzed?
Let's just stay here until it's televised
As a sit-down strike against stars undefined
Communism capitalized, now I can die.
Living is over-rated
I want to get lost
In your chest.
I want nothing more than
To be crushed
Slowly
By the force of your thighs.
Lost in the raspberry tinge of a sigh
Swimming til drowning, til choking alive
Treading blood limply, floating inside
Dead in the river of your bloodstream.
Taken by rapids
To disintegrate
In your eyes.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 12:01 PM UTC
The skies hung heavy and black,
casting a somber mood over the world below.
It was as if the heavens themselves were
burdened with the weight of yesterday's sorrows.
The fields, once vibrant and alive, now wore a grey smile,
a reflection of the tears shed in days gone by.
As night fell, the symphony of crickets filled the air,
their chorus echoing through the stillness.
It was a quiet night, interrupted only by the
gentle handover of the sun to the moon.
The air carried a pleasant scent of dew, a reminder
of the rest that awaited all living things.
And amidst it all, the tiny footsteps of rain danced
upon the asbestos roofing, a thief of nature sneaking
into the sounds of peace.
In the midst of this atmospheric symphony,
a wooden kitchen door ticked with the passage of time.
It creaked open and closed, its rusted iron hinges
adding to the melody.
The door seemed hinged in thought,
attached by fears and darkness.
It formed a latch, and night became its key,
locking away the light and welcoming the shadows.
As I stood there, my feet grew cold,
chilled by the ice-like glass of my fragile character.
A towel hung limply from the handle of the cupboard,
a silent witness to my dry mouth and the skeletons
of my past that haunted me, beyond my control.
But amidst the darkness, comfort found
its way to my side, persistently offering solace.
It was a visitor, never truly staying,
but always there when I needed it.
In my mind, I set up a spare room,
a sanctuary for fleeting moments of respite.
And in those rare moments, a sparing thought
would gently grace my mind, offering a glimmer of hope.
Yet, even in the midst of this fragile peace,
a shadow lurked behind me.
She knew my name, intimately aware of
the battles I fought within myself.
The empty room, once a sanctuary, grew heavy
with the weight of my inner demons.
Like a fallen angel, I descended into the depths
of my own despair, the falling rain mirroring
the tears that stained my soul.
And in a whisper, a secret was revealed in my ear:
depression, depression, depression.
And so, my depressing thoughts found me once again,
enveloping me in their suffocating embrace.
The world around me faded into the background
as I became lost in the labyrinth of my own mind.
Oct 21, 2023
Oct 21, 2023 at 1:58 PM UTC
i am terribly sorry for this horrifying sight you see, for the caretaker has recently joined the residents and the grass has almost no manners at all. i am also terribly sorry for this deafening silence you hear, for everyone is either lonely or sad and no one bothers to speak or sing. everything here has been reduced to dust, and just let this be at the back of your mind―everywhere you step there is someone underneath. repeat after me: This Is Not A Pun. i remember telling you about how no one ever noticed me or gave me attention but you silenced me with a withering glare and a no-one-cares-about-you lecture. it’s kind of funny each time i think about it, because i still stay by your side desperately inhaling all your methane filled words. if you’re looking for warmth and happiness then you’ve knocked the wrong door, because over here i have seen more regrets than in prisons; more tears than in hospitals; more bruises than in kindergartens. the stars in the night skies here hang limply on their hinges and there is nothing romantic in the way someone appears holding a bouquet of flowers. here is a girl with cherry blossom veins on her wrists, and there is a man with breath like the stinging October wind. everyone is a puzzle piece except that there is no picture to form, and we are all connected by intangible threads. in the most poetic way, everyone here is part of a poem, some rhyming, some free verse, except that there is no end to this poem―new additions. every month, a new spot. under the tree; next to the bench; these are the souls of people who scrape their knees in the empty forest but want to be helped up, an- OH, by the way, if you hear whispers and see movement from under the leaves, it’s not a hallucination. What? Didn’t I tell you?
Welcome to The Cemetery.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 9:41 AM UTC
i lay on this bed
like a daisy
smashed by a rubber tire
limply
peaceful
but crushed
all the same.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
your name
i hear it and i feel volcanic
it sets me off like a cannon and i feel like a gunshot
it triggers me triggers me triggers me triggers triggers triggers--
i close my eyes when i hear your name and my mind is filled with black pain
i feel like a ghost sometimes: floating limply through the motions of living but existing somewhere else
people talk around me but i hear numbness
your name is a fire in my heart and it burns so brightly that it blinds me and i love it, i do
i love feeling the flames of your incredibleness scorch my insides, hurt me and make me proud
being with you was better than heaven
and now i am not
we were two sinners that found each other in a world of pain and wove a cocoon of false paradise
your name is on the tip of my tongue every waking moment and when i speak it, i erupt
loss is not foreign to me
i'm the smallest scrap of a ripped family picture and i'm torn
maybe i romanticize (there's no maybe)
but i love you and i feel your name shatter my soul when i hear it, a beautiful melody fallen flat on deaf, ghostly ears
i shiver
you were my understander, my heart
and i live my life as a prayer to you
always
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 9:14 AM UTC
I do not miss you in moments,
But rather the lingering space that lies in between them:
The soft "nn" sound preceding "one mississippi"
Falls stagnant as I attempt to count out measurements of my grief.
Your presence is too large to be condensed into the language of time,
Hours and minutes limply droop over each other,
Until nothing is certain besides your existence.
Two mississippi, three mississippi,
I slowly drag out the syllables in a subtle defiance to your untimely exit.
Your time isn't yet over, I've kept you alive,
Pushing air into your crumpled lungs by counting sheep.
The moments in which you fell are recycled here,
Like stale air in a small cement cell,
They propel my time forward the same way they stopped yours.
I do not miss you during desperate sentences full of almost there prose,
But instead during the white space that runs between each line.
Four mississippi, five mississippi.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
The sky wept blood red tears
Onto the parched landscape
Forgotten apparel
Sway limply in the dead draft
Ruby Dust settles on neglected items
Lifeless items
A monster approaches
Ready to swallow the world
And crush it with crimson teeth
Red Fingers as gentle as feathers
Yet ready to suffocate
With strength of a thousand tigers
Armageddon is approaching
Death will be brought unto all
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 6:36 PM UTC